Eleven Eleven Eleven
Remembrance Day here in Canada. My husband and I went to the downtown Vancouver ceremony at Victory Square. It rained; somehow it just isn’t right if it doesn’t rain for Remembrance Day celebrations. In a way, the cold grey splatter of rain is a comfort for those of us who cry in the open without shame.
I always have such mixed feelings on Remembrance Day. Today is no different. War itself seems such a terrible waste of resources, energy, money, and life. And still, we must hate the war but love the warriors. Their country called and they stood up for all of us.
Nothing in this world demonstrates more clearly our colossal failure to communicate on a global level than war. It is to our profound shame as citizens of this planet that to this day, with all the technology we have developed, we can still feel such unbearable disagreement with each other on a national level that we send our fittest and most promising youth out to kill each other.
There are windows in the eyes of old soldiers. During these ceremonies, if you are brave enough to look, there are a few short moments when these heroes feel brave enough to let you glimpse the horror they remember, the horror they fought to keep you from ever having to see. I see the soldiers’ windows open up and I break down into pieces. I cannot bear to be this brave for even a moment, and still, I am grateful for the glimpse. It lets me appreciate their sacrifice, and how sweet and beautiful my life has been because of it.
Standing there out in the rain, I feel a light wash of responsibility glance over me. I somehow feel the need to be mindful of my posture. My strong body stiffens to a soldier’s stance; we all do this, I think; all of us transmogrify momentarily into soldiers of some real or imagined battle – just pick a war; the players and the reasons change but the process is always driven by the same machine. In unison, our eyes follow the tight formation of the commemorative flypast. I forget to breathe.
My feet are planted firmly in the muddy ground while child-like, during this short hiccup on a grey November day, I play-act in my mind how it might feel to be a soldier. I stand, shell-shocked, looking over a troop of kindred spirits. My undisciplined mind contemplates my make-believe battles in the gym, where I prepare for combat with imaginary foes as I push myself a little harder, where conjured rage mixes with a little bit of very real fear as I get under a bar that threatens to be more than I can lift – but only if I let it win.
It is such a farce, this iron battle fought by a paper soldier. I feel so small. Nothing I do in my soft, comfortable life can ever mimic the acrid reality of one battlefield minute.
Small children – not yet aware of why they are in a muddy field in the rain, listening to guns and bagpipes – are hushed and soothed by parents who likely never knew war themselves.
Thank God.
It is our collective responsibility that this newest generation carries forward the memory that ensures not one soldier died in vain. We owe them that much.
We owe them so much more than this.
We can never repay this debt.
The persistence of memory across time gives their sacrifice meaning. In fact, it is the only thing that ever can.
In a real war, where people actually have to fight - and not one where they are required to fight by contractual obligations that people didn’t expect would matter - people, real people do not fight because of national disagreements. Very few people fight for the country’s honour, and only a few more actually fight for glory. In a real war, where We Might Lose, people put their lives on the line for other people - for Mary and Sue and Mom and little Jim down the street who’s only two and cries during air raid drills. I think that many people don’t understand it as primarily about people, so really they don’t understand it at all.
I think therefore that honouring soldiers as soldiers is what many people try to do, but I think that it’s not really what makes them happier. They honour each other as soldiers, they salute, they offer respect to the memories of those with whom they fought. I can’t do that, I wasn’t there and if I tried it wouldn’t mean anything. Instead I try to make a point of talking to some of the men with pins for a while. I ask them when and how they served (not one fails to stand taller when they tell me, not one) and I tell them, if they tell me that they saw combat, that I’m glad that they are not among the fallen. Sometimes I hear an anecdote or two from their records, and sometimes I talk about my ancestral links to the war and the fact that had things gone differently in the war I might not have been born - for lack of one or either parent.
I honestly think that interacting with vets like they and we are real people demonstrates that there were real people that they were helping. That not only did Mary and Sue make it through, but little Jim now has kids who now have kids around two and who cry at loud excitement, and they’re all still people who are still worth keeping safe. I think that’s how to really show vets that they’re appreciated.
I’ve never had anyone try to kill me, and I’ve never tried to kill anyone, so it would be ridiculous to say that I understand someone who’s trained to handle both, let alone who’s experienced both. What we have in common is that I’m sure that there are people all around me that I want to stay safe and happy and alive and I am willing to go to great lengths to ensure that happens. This is what I try to remember and share every November.
Comment by Chris — November 14, 2007 @ 1:09 am
truer words have never been spoken. Today is Veterans Day in the USA. My father in law owns a congressional medal of honor (i think its the greatest medal a man or woman can receive). When I hear about how he earned it, I see that look that you spoke of. He is a saddened man because of the Korean Conflict. He has seen so much tragedy. I cant for the life of me want to go through what he went through.
I do understand why we have these days of remembrance and honor. It’s so that we can see how fragile a life truly is.
Comment by juggernaut — November 11, 2008 @ 4:43 pm